


El Pistolero

by Prumery



Series: Domingo en Fuego [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, also some dark shit at times, because im a gay hippie, inaccuracies in military ranks, just some major violence so dont worry too much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8797735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prumery/pseuds/Prumery
Summary: There's an old saying that a man is deathly scared of scorpions, so much so, he runs away to a place to stay away from them. As he remembers one, he draws one in the sand, and dies from the poison.Jesse McCree was nicknamed El Alacran back in Deadlock. A man with killer aim, a look, and you're dead.The story was a lot closer to home that he wanted to admit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man i'm trying so hard on this one and like... imma die  
> imma fuckign die help me  
> i actually started to hate this as ifinished it please be gentle ahhhhhhHHH  
> I can’t believe i’m actualyl fucking starting this could you fucking believe jfc heRE WE GO

A long and deep howl breaks through the early morning heat, and a small mouse skitters by. It’s the middle of June, and the heat is heavy and thick in the California desert.

Echoes of spurs fill the alleyway, waking up a cat napping on a dumpster. The man in a blood red serape smiles, scratches the small thing on it’s ears and walks up stairs.

The sun is barely starting to peak above the ends of the horizon, and there is a hum from the man, who only carries a small pack of things. Folded clothes, folded extra serape, underwear, a flask, and a box of cigars he never got to try.

A communicator he hasn’t touched. It’s quiet, but always charged. It’s been bothering him lately.

A woman shakes out a long shawl in front of a small shop. She smiles at him, waving as she opens the door to her bread shop, calmly asking him how he is in spanish. Her name tag says Socorro.

“Buenos Dias, señorita--” he says, and she laughs loudly, snorting and waving her hand at him. She doesn’t look old, but there are crows feet when she smiles. It’s lovely to see her age.

The man sits at a chair, his hands laced together, calmly smiling as the woman sets a coffee cup down. He sets his hat down in respect, thanks her, and drinks it straight black.

“What brings you here?”

“Word of mouth.”

“What did you hear, vaquero?”

The man smiles at the coffee, takes a bite from a concha, and licks the crumbs off his lips. They’re dry from walking the desert for so long. He’s gone without water a long while, and aches to feel the cool ice water that the woman pours into a lemonade glass.

“Heard you had a place for a weary traveler.”

“I may have. Attic is up for rent. A little breezy, and might need a hole fixed, but I promise I can make it up with home cooked tortillas,”

A brief, and fleeting memory of a chubby woman loudly smacking flour together and singing off key Pedro Fernandez passes McCree’s thoughts. His Mama and her cooking, her soft and warm voices, her hair curls feeling soft against his cheeks as he hugs her.

Smelling of bread and roses.

“How much.”

“Whatever you can.”

She must’ve noticed his parched look, as she puts a cup of ice water in front of him. There’s a small hesitance as she notices his right eye is more dilated and cross hair shaped. She says nothing as he takes a long and deep drink, his eyes closing.

“Time since you’ve been with people?”

“... A month.”

“A month? Walking from where?”

“Las Vegas.”

Her eyes widen. She pauses, looking at his shoes. They’re worn, torn from walking. He does look tired, he looks beat, and worn. Like the Sun crushed him as he carried it on his shoulders.

He smiles gently, softly. Almost like it didn’t bother him.

“You need rest. I will set up some blankets, and--”

He lost her. His thoughts become hazed as she drags him upstairs, fretting and gushing about him. He would think that a woman who was at least a good foot shorter would be worried about a strange over six foot tall man coming into her house.

But she’s there. Worried. A mother’s worry.

He is put in a room as she hastily tries to put away decorations and trees, and fixes a bed. It smells a little old, but the blanket she gives him are warm, and comfy.

She stares as he pulls out his wallet, hands her a couple of hundreds (she almost cries), and lays on the bed.

It’s too small. His feet stick out from the end, his head is pressed against a flat pillow, he still has his boots on.

But he would be lying if he said it wasn’t the best sleep in his life.

-

“Mirasol! No don’t!”

The door is thrown open. The cowboy’s hand twitches to his hip where his gun is, but the big brown eyes staring at him make him pause.

There’s a stare down between a small 9 year old and a 35 for about three seconds. Then the little girl laughs loudly, and goes to him, grinning.

“Mister Cowboy!”

He smiles as she bounces up and down, her braided pigtails swinging. She stares up at him, her eyes wide and smiling wide at him. She seemed to be very interested in his specific way of dress, and he should probably be a ashamed that a little kid likes his clothing so much.

But her smile is very cute.

“Hello there. What is your name?” His spanish is sluggish as he rubs his eyes and yawns loudly. There’s a tapping of shoes and the woman comes in.

“I apologize, she’s so jumpy--”

He waves her off softly, slipping his cowboy boots on and standing. He towers over both of them, especially the tiny girl. She’s in awe of him, her brown eyes sparkling and grinning.

“Cowboy!”

He laughs softly, and boops her nose, rubbing his hands over his eyes and sighing.

“How long have i been out?”

“A couple of hours.”

The little girl stares at him, grinning and grabbing his large hand, touching the soft calloused fingers. She wasn’t very shy, was she?

Socorro stares at him, and ushers him to the kitchen.

“Are you thinking of working somewhere here?”

“Peaches are starting. It won’t be too hard to get a job.” He says, sits at a table and grins as he’s handed food.

The warm steam coming off of the food curls around his nose and his cheeks, and he sighs happily. He hasn’t had a meal like this in years.

There’s a fleeting thought. Of a large woman with beautiful eyes, and fat pigtail curls singing loudly in a small kitchen. It’s small, and tidy, and smells like spices. There’s a hand on his head, and he turns to look at a black man, who’s grinning and pinching his cheek.

“Son, eat your dinner--”

He blinks and the memory falls off into a fog, and he looks up at the strange woman, and the little girl who has no name, and he swallows down a painful knot.

“Mirasol. Mirasol, no, don’t!” Socorro frets and hands a napkin to the girl, who’s groaning angrily at their mother. She stares at the man, and then cocks her head.

“What do I call you, señor?”

“Jesse.”

The man says softly, and the little girl laughs and claps her hands. As if it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever said.

Jesse smiles wide, and laughs back at her.

“Do not laugh at his name, Mirasol.”

“That is not what I am laughing at, Mama.” She perks her lips in a pout and speaks in a small voice. She crosses her arms angrily, kicks and turns to Jesse.

“Where are you from?”

“New Mexico.”

“Very far from here.” She stares at the plate of refried beans, trying to make a map in her head. There’s a moment where she looks confused, but then something clicks. He understands, as the U.S. is still so huge. A 9 year old would have problems with that.

Socorro, sets down a cup of water, and Jesse takes it happily, and wolfs down his food. There’s a silence, and then she clears her throat.

“I spoke to Alejandro from the other house this afternoon. He had said that there were a couple of job openings for a mechanic. I know that you don’t mind field work, but..” She twiddled her fingers nervously, and then sighed.

Jesse was confused, as she looked worried.

“I did do some mechanics.”

“Ah. Then you’ll do.”

“Why the worry?”

There’s another silence. The little girl turns her head to her mother, who wrings her hands and bites her lip.

“Daddy died in an accident. A machine got him at work.” She says somberly.

Another silence. This time a lot more heartfelt and painful that the other two.

Jesse swallows his bite of food, and stares at the plate.

“Mirasol… that is something heavy to tell someone we just met--”

She shrugs. There’s not much of care in her words, as if she wasn’t there enough to understand why saying something like that would be uncomfortable. The child only says it matter of factly.

Jesse stares at the table, and then looks at Socorro.  
“How long ago?”

“5 years. I don’t… want you to get hurt.” There’s a hesitance from her, and she sighs again.

“Do not worry. You are a good mechanic?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then that works. Manuel pays well.” She blushed a bit and sat up, picking up the food and then sighing softly as she begins to clean the things. Jesse obliges to take over, and she angrily let’s him.

“Where will he be? I will speak with him.”

“Next door. Always up before the crack of dawn.”

She laughs softly, pushes a curl behind her ear and sets the dishes down. The kitchen is very well spaced, with large bags of flour and sugar and beans. There’s a silence looming, a warm silence.

Mirasol bounces around the room, music playing loudly. She laughs and swings her doll around, and Jesse smiles at her.

“Thank you for trusting me, señorita.”

She snorts, rolls her hand at him and wipes her hands on a pink apron. It’s stained with jam and some flour. Must’ve been making something.

“Flatterer.”

He laughs and then sighs, looking at the time.

“I will clean the attic. You seem to have things there, if you tell me which are good, I will put them away.”

“Would you really?”

“Of course.”

He smiles and sets himself to the attic. It’s quiet, the moon fat in the sky. There’s a silence, only interrupted by the giggles of Mirasol.

And for now. He’s okay.

-

He dreams of different times.

A man is there. He’s sewing back a patch he had ripped in his sweater. It’s quiet, with a large bowl of food in front of Jesse. He’s shaking with a fever, his eyes heavy with drowsiness, and his nose red from rubbing it too much.

“Pinche Cachorro. Getting sick on me like this.” He says softly, but not angrily. More as if he’s kinda angry at the situation itself.

Jesse is 20. He shakes again from the fever, sniffling loudly. A woman with a beautiful hijabi sets down a cup of tea that’s so strong it might start deadlifting Jesse.

His fingers wrap around the cup and he drinks messily. There’s a brief moment where his nose unclogs and he can smell the spice deep in his person.

It’s wonderful.

Soft lips press against his forehead, and he smiles soft as the woman sits beside him, wrapping a large red cloth around them. He sneezes, she pulls away for a second, disgusted, but then puts him to her chest.

It’s silent in the room. A heater pumps out hot air beside him, and he leans towards it. He feels cold, and hot, and uncomfortable.

“I had told you not to chase that guy into the water. We could’ve gotten him.”

Jesse angrily mewed as the woman ran her fingers through his hair. Carefully pushing back the locks, careful to ignore the sweat dripping down his face.

“He had a kid with him too. I didn’t… want to…” He shuddered, and the older woman laughed softly.

“You’ll get yourself killed protecting people one of these days, cabron.” The man looks at him, sits up and then sits beside both him and the woman.

“Pendejo. Almost got yourself killed.” He whispered softly, and Jesse sniffled.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel.”

Gabriel stares at him, running his fingers through sweat, curly hair. There’s a silence again. So many silences fill his entire life.

Some are very good. Like these.

Where Gabriel is staring at him with warm brown eyes, keeping him still as he spoon feeds him the medicine. He’s shaking too much to do anything. When his other caretaker, Ana, gently tucks him into bed, puts a cold rag on his head, and let’s him sleep.

A small tick goes through the air as Gabriel starts to knit a scarf. Ana is quietly drinking her tea, and texting someone. Probably Reinhardt.

He keeps these memories close.

-

“Are you running away from something?”

She asks him, one day. It’s been awhile since he’s moved into the attic. Everything that is her’s is packed away with labeled boxes. She praises him for cleaning, and he only waves it off.

Cut fingers form fixed cars run over the soft bread, picking the fluffiest pink one and biting into the concha.

“Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been here for almost two years, Jesse. You can tell me.”

She stares at him. She knows something.

Jesse runs his fingers over the crumbs of the food. Sighing, he looks at her, and smiles softly. The cross hair in his right eye dilates a little, and she stares at him.

“What do you know?”

There’s a pause, then she takes out a poster. Uncrumpling it, she sets it in front of Jesse, who stares at his own face.

The large bounty can be completely overbearing. Someone could drop an entire thing just for hard cash like this.

His eye dilates even more. There’s a feeling of uncertainty in his body, and he looks up at her.

She doesn’t look angry. She looks sad.

“You aren’t the same person. Not anymore.”

There’s a headache starting from the right side of his face. He closes his eye, leans forward and sighs heavily.

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t want to know anything.”

She looks embarrassed suddenly. Jesse stares at her, and then knows why she looks like she was caught.

“You knew who I was?”

She did. Oh, god she did. She knew who he was, and she still trusted him in her home, with her child.

There was desperation in her eyes. He sits up and looks down at her. He’s not intimidating her, he’s trying to comfort her, to get him to tell him.

“There… There were these men… They were looking for me because of my husband. He had been in some trouble before we got married.”

There’s tears in her eyes. He takes her hand, tightens his grip on it, and lets god. He doesn’t want to push himself on her, she’s scared.

“They… They threatened Mirasol. And then you showed up, and I knew who you were.” Wiping at her face, she cleans her hands on her apron and turns to the sink.

“They haven’t showed up.”

“Who are they?”

“Los Muertos.”

Jesse stares at the table, licks his lips and rubs the headache that’s starting to form. He hasn't’ used his Deadeye in a while.

“The faction here is a lot smaller.  
“I know.”

“They could still hurt you.”

“I know.”

“That’s why you kept me here?”

She stares at him, then back at the dirty dishes. Her hands are shaking, she’s terrified.

“They’re going to come for me. I know it. They won’t stop. They want to climb up the ranks, and that means killing anyone that might oppose them, or anyone that…”

She takes a deep breath.

Jesse puts his hand on her shoulder. He squeezes her arm, and smiles.

“I’ll take care of it.”

-

It’s too dark to see the man’s face.

It doesn’t matter.

“Now, i’ve heard that you’ve had a problem with a friend of mine.”

There’s a smell of urine, and it makes Jesse scoff inwardly. The man is so scared of him he’s pissing himself.

The right side of his face is illuminated. The cross in his eye glows and the man underneath him whimpers a word.

“Alacran--”

“Exactly. Now. Your boss--” He pulls back, setting himself on the balls of his feet. The man has blood dripping down his nose, and a wet stain on the front of his jeans. The skulls tattooed into his skin do not glow as red as the eye staring back at him.

“--Your boss. What are you going to tell him?”

“N-Not to mess with Soccoro.”  
“Good. And who said this to you.”

“El Alacran.”

He raises himself over the man, puts his pistol away and turns around. The moon is high, and Jesse holds his eye, taking a deep breath and trying to calm his headache.

There’s a silence around him, and he feels a draft in the alley. The loud tapping of his shoes makes him uncomfortable, and then he swallows, and quickly draws his gun again.

There’s a black mass starting to mist up. His eyes widened as it moves and rises, and he puts his gun a little lower.  
The mass stops, and he swallows as it curls around him. It touches his shoulders, his cheek, and there’s a hushed breeze that twirls around him.

“Been a while, cachorro…”

Jesse’s eyes widen as a black mass becomes a person. He stares at a mask, a terrifying one at that. The black holes where eyes are suppose to be glow red.

He puts his gun up again, but it shakes.

“Gabriel?”

“In the flesh, cabron.” He laughs, takes off his mask and stares into Jesse’s eyes.

Tears fill Jesse’s eyes. He wants to throw himself at his father figure. To hold him tight, to ask why he’s here.

“You have to go back kid. You have to go back home.”

He touches his shoulder, and walks off into the alley.  
“What? Gabriel! Come back I--”

“There’s something coming.” He looked back at him, his voice silent. It echoes in his ears, and he swallows.

“You didn’t die.”

“I did.”

“But--”

“I’ll come back.”

He disappears, and Jesse McCree is left abandoned again.

-

He’s packing his bags as Socorro comes up. Mirasol looks at him with tears in her eyes. She’s grown up very well, a cute little girl.

Jesse hopes that he didn’t hurt her in any way emotionally. He’s not the best person there is out there, and children were impressionable.

“You were part of Overwatch?” She said as he packed his bags, and slung one of the bags over his shoulder.

“I was.”  
“You’re one of those heroes, aren’t you.” Mirasol whispers, and he bends down on one knee in front of her. His off dilated eye stared into her brown eyes. She is much taller now, her hair much longer. She’s a beautiful child.

He smiles.  
“I ain’t very good. I ain’t very bad. I’m just here, kid.” He stands and the undoes his scarf, giving it to her. He smiles at Socorro, kisses her hand and then walks off back to the alley he came from the first time he was here.

A mist floats into the air at the edge of city, and Jesse McCree stares at the glowing badge in his hand. There’s loud beeping in his ear.

“Winston?”

“McCree! It is so good to hear your voice, my friend!”

Jesse smiles as he sees the mist form.

“I’m coming to Overwatch, Winston. So you better hide your peanut butter.” He laughs as Winston grumbles and writes down something loudly.

“How long?”

“Give me a couple of months. You’re in Gibralter, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m in California at the moment. “

Winston whistles into his ear, and he swears he can hear his smile.  
“Alright. I’ll have a room for you. And hey…”

“Hm?”  
“Genji’s here.”

McCree’s eyes widen, and he feels his heart throb. He smiles wide, looking at the mist that begins to point away into the desert.

“I’ll be there then.”

He hangs up.

The man dressed in black goes into the desert, and the gunslinger follows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree finds himself reminiscing and reminding himself that he is Jesse McCree and this is his moment.  
> No matter how much he fucks up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So like this chapter has some triggering stuff for dysphoria, so please be careful! I don't want anyone uncomfortable  
> also i might've put too much of my own situation with McCree's mother as being transphobic, and it turned into a vent... for myself...  
> //sweats

The desert is dry and hot, but really what was he expecting.

There was a wrong turn somewhere. He must’ve turned somewhere wrong, because suddenly he wasn’t in the desert anymore. 

The loud crunches from the snow echoed in the dome like plateu. He stared out into the distance, not able to see anything.

Hopping on trains and falling asleep halfway wasn’t helpful to where he was going. All he knows is that he’s in the middle of the state, if he could just… Get to Virginia. If only he could go and talk to an old friend.

Are they even still alive, he thinks as he wraps his serape tighter around him. Brushing his fingers over the cold leaves, he takes a fruit that somehow managed to survive the winter, taking a bite into it.

There isn’t any noise, just a vacuum of early snow fall. It’s peaceful, almost deafeningly so. He wants to stop for a little. He wants to stop walking, he’s so tired.

But he can’t. He needs to get home.

He snorts at that thought. Since when was a creaky bed and a small room his home?

That thought makes him laugh well into the night, when he’s curled up under a tree, pressed right against the cool bark, and humming as the small fire he made warms him.

He’s almost home.

* * *

 

Shit.

He didn’t expect the snow storm.

He’s not sure how he sprained his foot. Everything is mostly a blur. He was disassociating for a while, and really it wasn’t the correct time but he can't help it. Now he was stuck in the middle of a snowstorm.   
The serape was the only thing keeping him warm. But he was already starting to feel like he was going blind, so he knew hypothermia wasn’t far behind.

Shit.

He knew that one day it would end with him alone and okay, he doesn’t have a bullet wound in his chest, but it’s close enough. At times he hoped it wouldn’t end like this, with him regretting things.

He regretted not making it to Gibraltar. To not seeing Genji’s face light up when he brings back sweets. 

To feeling his old flame pressing his lips to his cheek, speaking in hushed Japanese about how much he missed him, and how he loves that he’s back home.

Laughing, he thinks of Ana. Of how she died. Of how she’d be chastising him for falling asleep on that one train. Of how he doesn’t have enough food for a month, much less this entire trek.

His eyes flutter open, and he sees snow flecks on his lashes. He breathes out, and cries softly. 

Ana. His replacement mother figure. One that accepted him, unlike his own.

His mother, bless her heart, was a good mother. A good woman, a nice woman. Just not understanding. McCree does not blame her for what she did.

She did always prefer Jesse as a girl. As her daughter, when both of them knew well enough that he was not, and never was.

Ana… Ana though. She was the one that convinced him to get the implant instead of the T shots. He was still a little kid, still looking for a figure to help him. 

The cold sets in. He wishes he was back home. He’d give anything to have his mother’s bread, to have her hands on his, holding him tight.

“Mija… Such a beautiful girl…”

McCree felt tears in his eyes. Who was he kidding. His mother never accepted, never would. She loved him, but what he wasn’t.

Sitting up, he tried to move again. Trying to see if he could at least start a fire, something to at least make it through the storm. He can’t.

“She’s going to take you away, Sandra.”

“I… It’s Jesse, Dad.”

The black man smiles. Smiles, and takes his hand, kissing it. Jesse is wearing a long white dress, ruined by him walking almost 15 miles home. His cheeks are bright red, and his feet throb.

“What’s Jesse for?”   
“Jessiah.”

“You decided to be Junior?”

Jesse smiles, feeling tears fill his eyes as his Dad brings him into his lap. It’s been way too long. He feels uncomfortable. Like being loved isn’t his place. This is deserving of his good daughter, little Sandra, not Jesse.

“You… Your mom… Your mom is a good person.”   
“I know.”   
“But she wants to take you away. Somewhere bad, mijo.”

Jesse begins to cry. His father takes his face, looks him deep into his eyes and smiles.

“Jesse. When you were born, i was so proud to hold you in my arms. Such a cute little girl, and you have my eyes.”

He wipes Jesse’s face, and kisses his head. Jesse cries harder.

“But that’s not who you were. Not who you are. You know who you are.” He brings him into a tight embrace, and holds him there. Jesse cries for what feels like hours, sobbing into his father’s chest and holding him.

“I… Remember Uncle Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“Well… She’s my lovely sister now. And I need you to stay with her, just for a while.”

Jesse doesn’t feel sad when his dad hands him a suitcase full of his old clothes. They’re too small now that he has a beer gut. He pinches his cheek, undoes his serape and puts a hat that’s too big on Jesse’s head.

Jesse looks funny in a floor length ripped dress with a big cowboy hat and old serape. But his father just called him son, and made sure he felt safe.

Jesse remembers that that’s the last time he saw his father. 

He lays down on the snow. That’s what he regrets.

He regrets not coming back. Not telling his father how he helped him get through those awful years in Deadlock. Or how he just… wished his mother could just call him Son. Just once, just once and he’d be okay.

“So this is how it ends?” He whispers into the snow as he finally starts to give up. He stares at the setting sun, shaking as he realizes he’s dying.

There’s a shadow moving around the edge of his vision, but he thinks it's just his imagination. Blinking away more snow, he breathes out and sighs softly.

“It’s fucking cold.”

And with those words, McCree gives into the chill.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Much to his dismay, he does not get the sweet release of death.

He wakes to someone gently running a cloth over his forehead. He feels his entire body start to shake and he coughs softly.

“Wh--”

The haze at the edges of his eyes finally settles and he sees someone who’s almost painfully beautiful. The man stares at him, his deep brown eyes taking in his face. He’s worried, it’s blatant in his face.

“Be silent. You are unwell.”

McCree passes out again.

-

The angel that literally brought him back to life stares at him again. This time a lot less worried, more relaxed.

“You almost died.”

“An angel saved me, so.” He smiles softly, and the man frowns, getting up and walking away from his advances. McCree frowns, sitting up, and finding it hard to keep his stomach still. It flips and he wants to heave, but he has no food to throw up.

“Eat.” The man says. 

Their surroundings are very quaint. There’s a bed, and a cot, a small stove, a kotetsu (ha! So he does remember that word) over a small table, and a small door leading to the bathroom, or what he thinks is.

He licks his lips, finding himself very thirsty. There’s a glass of water beside him, and he drinks until he wants to heave again.

“What were you doing out there?”

McCree turns to the person, staring with glazed eyes. He’s very sick from the cold, and he wraps the blanket around him. He hums.

“I was walking.”

The man’s eyes move to McCree’s body, then back at the bag. He doesn’t believe him, and he doesn’t blame him. You don’t just find a random man walking in the middle of fucking nowhere and believe it when he says he was just walking.

He doesn’t press the matter. 

“Thank you, by the way. It’s mighty kind of you to lend out a hand to a complete stranger like me.”

“It is, very.”

He pauses, looks to the side, and sighs. As if he’s thinking of an old memory, of something someone said to him.

Funny man.

He sits up, and feels dizzy again, putting his hand against his head and groaning and sighing heavily. Looking down, he notices that he still has on his clothes. He thanks whatever deity he remembers that the man doesn’t know his gender yet, and didn’t intrude in his personal space.

“There’s a bathroom there. Go wash, you reek.” He whispers and McCree has to roll his eyes, and sit up. He sniffles and shuffles to the bathroom.

Damn sprain.

“How do ya’ll know I ain’t no serial killer?”

The man laughs from the other side of the door, whispering something in another language. McCree interprets it as Japanese, and from his rusty translation it comes out as--   
“You wouldn’t be alive, cowboy.”

That makes Jesse tense. His body starts to tingle, and his right eye throbs. Covering it, he looks at himself in the mirror.

The facial hair he had been taking care of now is just a bush of gross masculinity. He stares at it and hopes to fix it, but…

He ignores it instead, going to the bathroom and starting the water. It starts to steam, dripping in his hands and his arms.

“Fuck…” He whispers and presses against the wall, moaning at the warmth. His leg is bothering him, inching the pain like tendrils around his foot. It’s obvious it may be more than a sprain, maybe a ripped tendon. Not very good while he was in this situation, really.

As he steps out, he notices that there are welts on his back and multiple parts of his body. It looks as though someone tried to pull him or grip him.

The man must’ve carried him. He wonders for how long, or for how much time.

Stepping out, he turns to look at him. There’s a familiar look to him, for some reason. The way he holds himself, the way he speaks. A certain inflection that just… rings a bell.

Before he can remember, he’s brought in again by the man setting a small cup in front of a table with no chairs. He bends down, cups the flats of his feet against his backside and sets his hands on his lap.

The man pauses, stares at the way he does that, and then sits cross legged.

“Thank you. Very much for saving me, and for…” He pauses as the man puts up a hand, shakes his head, and takes a drink from a square cup.

He now notices the piercings in his nose, and the one on the pinch between his eyes. They glitter when he turns, making McCree remember that one piercing in his ear he had years ago.

“I do not mind helping someone in need of aid.”

There’s a look that flashes past his eyes, but he doesn’t get an answer or question. McCree wraps himself in the blanket, shaking and sighing softly.

“I will be out of your hair as soon as I can. I can pay for food and…” He pauses, yawning, and stares blearily at the wall, and the man sets a cup in his hands. Steam rolls off in heavy waves, filling his nostrils with soft smells. There is a strong scent of greens, and he can’t put his finger on it, but he sips it and then pounds it back.

The man rolls his eyes, setting himself in front of McCree, taking his hand, and checking over the small scrapes. He has cold hands, and compared to the burning furnace that is McCree, they almost combust in the difference.

The man’s brows knit, and he looks up at him.

“My name is Hanzo.”

“Why, darlin’ shared his name. I’m honored.” McCree drawls, and leans forward, letting his now dry hair fall in front of his face. That reminds him, his hair is too long.

A small tinge of red falls on the man’s cheeks and McCree saves that info for later. 

“I’m Jesse McCree. Nice to meet you.”

Sitting back, he pulls up McCree’s pant leg, staring at the swollen ankle, having his cold hands trace the unbearable heat coming off from McCree.

“You’ll be stuck here for a couple of days, unfortunately…” He whispers gently, setting his leg back down and running his fingers through his beard in thought. There was a handful of white hairs sparse between the black, right under full lips.

For a man that was built like a goddamn tank, he was incredibly beautiful. Blindingly so.

McCree smiles to himself, remembering waking up to that face and believing he died.

The man raises his gaze to meet McCree’s, and he smiles gently at him. McCree feels a twist in his chest at that and smiles back.

“I guess me and you are going to spend some more time together, McCree.”

McCree smiles back at him, his dimples showing and laughing softly.

“Well. I guess we should get to know each other then, tiger.”

The man laughs softly sits back on the haunches of his feet, leaning towards the table and grabbing a wrap. He takes his leg again, gently wrapping it and tightening it. McCree tries to ignore the fact that he feels a bit nervous about another man touching him.

It's been a while.

"Why do you live here? Out in the middle of no where in the U.S.?"

"Well..." He is silent for a second, then shrugs softly. Setting McCree's foot down, he proceeds to wash his hands in a small bin beside the table, and then grab his food again. The chopsticks in his hand were expertly used, and McCree only stared at his.

He knows how to use them, but he... wasn't sure he wanted to use them in front of him.

"There's a fork beside you."

The man says softly, with a small laugh in his voice. McCree let's out a small breathe he didn't know he was holding, takes the fork and sits in silence for a second. Then speaks.

"Why?"  


"Hm?"

McCree raises his eyes to look at Hanzo, who is drinking out of a square box, sipping silently and staring into McCree's deep amber eyes. His charcoal ones bore into McCree's being, shaking him. He pauses, as if he's about to say something.

Something... Important, because he seems like he's nervous about it, though.

"I just... believe that you needed help."

"Well, you weren't wrong there, tiger." He laughs to himself, and sips on his drink, humming at the warmth. He's still running a fever, though. Not as strong as the day before, but he feels better.

Hanzo stares at his hands, then at the man in front of him, and laughs. Nothing funny was said, but really they are in an awkward situation. Both of them don't know each other and of course they somehow ended up together.

What a coincidence.

"But I could be dangerous."

"You could be."

"And if I am?"

"Well..." He sets his cup down, looks him right in the eyes, and says--

"I guess i'll have to find out, then..."


End file.
